When our child is born, I stay, she had answered with a condition.
Years earlier, Nathaniel had asked her to give him an heir. It had been created by choice, and a family that had not been created by obligation: children who knew they were loved, a home that felt like hers. She had received a man who listened, but she had received something more: she had received that, a life where she would never again be helpless, a place where nobody could dismiss her. She had wanted only security. She thought of the woman she had been before Blackwood.
Evelyn watched them. William grinned.
"Then it is impressive." Nathaniel smiled.
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "No."
William looked offended. "With help, I made it."
"It is impressive." Nathaniel looked.
"Look, Papa!"
One afternoon, she found him in the nursery holding Sophie while William showed him a wooden horse. Evelyn knew better. Nathaniel pretended he was not responsible. Sophie became spoiled; William became protective; their household became louder. The little girl was named Sophie.
Evelyn laughed. "It should be."
"That is not a title." Nathaniel smiled.
"I am a big brother." William looked offended.
"Not alone."
"Can I hold her?"
"Yes, she is very small."
He stared at the baby. William stood beside the bed.
"Absolutely." He looked at his daughter. "You're sure?"
"I wanted a healthy child."
"You wanted a son?" Evelyn looked at him.
"A daughter."
When the baby cried, he laughed. Nathaniel sat beside Evelyn and held her hand. No frantic pacing, no panic. This time there was no storm: the second child was born in spring.
Then he kissed her fingers. He caught her hand; she hit his arm lightly.
"It is. You make it sound difficult." She laughed. "Being married to you."
"What condition?"
"I have accepted my condition. You are starting to sound romantic again. Why?"
"Be careful." She smiled. "I would come anywhere."
"For coming with me."
"For what?"
When she woke, she said, "Thank you."
He watched the countryside. On the journey home, Evelyn slept against Nathaniel's shoulder. She had never been—she was not the daughter of a thief, but it changed the way she remembered herself. That knowledge did not change the past: he had been betrayed; her father had not abandoned them. For once, she had an answer to a question that had followed her for years.
She leaned against him. "Then you can."
He nodded to stop wondering. She looked at him.
"What do you want?"
"I agree. You do not have to forget."
"Quite so. You do not have to forgive them."
He took her hand. "Yes."
"Sad?"
"Yes."
"Angry?"
"No."
Nathaniel asked, "Are you disappointed?"
When they left the office, she was silent. She accepted only the documents proving her father's innocence; Evelyn refused most of it. The family offered compensation. By the time the truth came out, the man was dead. He had blamed Evelyn's father to protect himself. The merchant's eldest son had.
Evelyn's father had not stolen the money. The truth was ugly. They found a retired clerk who remembered the case. They found letters. They found the merchant's old records. The investigation took them to London again.
That answer made her eyes fill. "Because it matters to you."
"Why will you?"
"I remember. You don't have to." She hesitated. "Then we will find it."
"Yes."
"Do you want to know the truth?"
Nathaniel looked at her now. Someone claimed he had been framed. Evelyn had spent years believing her father had abandoned them. The accusation had ruined what little security the family possessed: he had disappeared before Evelyn was old enough to understand; he had been accused of stealing money. It explained that Evelyn's father had once worked for a wealthy merchant family.
She handed him the letter. "I may."